Onwards I tread,
No kin have I alike: kindred to chaos,
Shuffle, rake and broom.
The hills are hollowed out
To eyeless sockets
Pock-marked, pallid.
Onwards I tread,
Trudging o’er the mud.
Sweep swift, and renew,
Rake and broom, the limbs lie gaunt.
Thrice knocking, muffled in the mist.
One for man and wife, one for their daughter.
Onwards I tread, relentless:
An ambling, rolling fog,
Or a figure, barely glimpsed
In darkened cloth.
Here is your door.
I, shadow pest a-trudging up your stairs…
I tread softly…
I will stop and watch you first.